


Hello, I Must Be Going

by moon_custafer



Category: The Outsider (TV 2020)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, Fluff, I just wanted them to have another scene together, Missing Scene, Vignette, comfort before the coming hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:27:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24645646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_custafer/pseuds/moon_custafer
Summary: Holly is glad to have some time alone with Andy out on the porch.
Relationships: Holly Gibney/Andy Katcavage
Kudos: 5





	Hello, I Must Be Going

“I don’t think we should doze off right away,” Andy says, adding hastily: “I mean, if we’re here to guard Claude, we shouldn’t both sleep anyhow.”

As the lamps in the cabin behind them go out and the goodnights dissipate, Holly is glad to be spending the night out on the porch, even if the blanket provided by Claude's brother has a faint smell of mildew about it. Andy hadn't questioned her choice to ride down here with Ralph Anderson instead of him, even if he hadn’t known her exact reasons; and she wasn’t so sure he _hadn’t_ sussed out exactly what it was she wanted to discuss with Detective Anderson: how he needed to get out of his own way or get out of everyone else’s. Better the man drop out now and go back alive to Jeannie than die from second-guessing some decision. But now discussion of the case is done for the night, and she welcomes the chance to be alone with Andy.

“I don’t suppose any of the gentlemen in the cabin are going to sleep all that much,” she replies now as she curls up against his chest. He smells a lot better than the blanket. Good enough to compensate for not having a place to set up her saints. “And there’s Yunis keeping watch from his car. Not that I’m tired either."

“If it weren’t for the reasons behind it, this might almost be fun,” Andy murmurs. “Sleeping over at somebody’s cabin. Visiting caves.”

“Mm,” says Holly, “bit too close to camping for my taste. At least we’ve got a roof over our heads,” she admits, opening her eyes and turning to peer up into the darkness of the porch rafters.

“I guess you’re more the glamping type.”

“Glamping?”

“You know,” says Andy, “glamorous camping? Champagne in the tents, that sort of thing?” Even without being able to see him, Holly can picture those almond-shaped blue eyes crinkling as he tries to figure out if he’s said the wrong thing or not.

“Glamping,” she repeats, hoping he can hear the amusement in her tone, and she feels him kiss the crown of her head.

“We could go glamping, after all this is over. The two of us. If you like.”

“I prefer my hotel room.” Holly wriggles herself around in Andy’s arms, and he starts to let her go. “I’m not leaving, I just want to face the other direction,” she says, leaning back and tugging on the blanket.

Andy reaches over her shoulder and pulls the blanket higher until it’s just under her chin, tucking it in between her body and his. She sighs and relaxes into his embrace, but keeps her eyes focused on the woods beyond the porch railing. There’s no reason to believe El Cuoco will come here tonight—its plan depends on being where Claude isn’t—but she still feels like she needs to study the terrain. Tomorrow they should scout around the local cemeteries as well as the caves. Holly smiles in the dark, already picturing how Andy will enjoy that. For herself, she has to admit she likes working with a partner; still, it’s a mistake to get too far ahead of the scenario.

* * *

It’s the kind of dark you only get outside the city. Andy’s right arm is draped outside the blanket, and Holly squints at the glowing dial on his wristwatch: three-forty-six a.m. Her bladder isn’t going to let her go back to sleep unless she does something about it, and after a moment’s consideration, she decides she’d rather risk waking the occupants of the cabin than stumble around the bushes or wait uncomfortably until morning. She squirms free of the blanket and opens the screen door, praying it isn’t as loud to Claude and Seale Bolton and Detective Anderson as it sounds to her, though she knows her ears are more sensitive than most people's.

The bathroom’s easy enough to find, and the light, switched on once she’s closed the door behind her, not too painfully bright. Afterwards Holly washes her hands and rinses the stale taste of sleep from her mouth. She dries her hands on Seale's dubious towel, neatly tucks in her blouse and checks her reflection in the mirror, then turns out the light before creeping back out through the living-room with red and green afterimages glowing behind her eyes. Someone stirs and she recognizes Anderson’s gravelly voice yawning an inquiry from the direction of the sofa.

“It’s just me,” she tells him. “I had to visit the bathroom.”

“Didn’t hear you come through before,” he mutters. “Getting too old to stay awake all night.”

“Better you sleep now and be alert tomorrow, Detective.”

She returns to the porch to find a cold grey dawn just advanced enough to make out the pale oval of Andy’s face against the back of the sofa. Even in sleep his features never quite lose their wistful, puzzled look. Holly kisses her fingertips, transfers the kiss to his mouth and his eyelids quiver slightly as she climbs back under the blanket and settles in beside him. Without waking he folds his arms around her and whispers something, unintelligible but soft, in her ear. It might have been _it's all right_ or _I'm sorry._

* * *

The next day, after Andy responds to Seale’s passive-aggressive dig about the cups by clearing them away before she can get up from the table, Holly folds up her laptop and follows him to the kitchen, where he’s already washing them.

“Towels don’t wash themselves either,” she mutters, Seale's words still rankling. “Is there a piece of fabric in this cabin that’s ever seen the inside of a laundromat?” But she picks up the towel and takes the cup from Andy’s hand as he rinses it with a sidelong glance her way. He turns his attention back down to the suds, smiling as he washes another mug, humming quietly to himself. Holly knows the words, although she’s never heard Andy sing them— Andy, who knows all these songs because he loves old movies, not because information gets into his head and sticks there whether it’s wanted or not. 

_Hello!  
I must be going.  
I came to say: I cannot stay,  
I must be going..._

After a while he raises his eyes from the sink:

“Used to watch the Sunday Afternoon Movie every week at my grandparents’ house. Especially if it was the Marx Brothers— at six years old I knew all the words to “Hooray For Captain Spaulding” and “Lydia The Tattooed Lady.” His smile flickers like a malfunctioning neon sign: “You can imagine how well that went down at school.”

“May I ask you something?”

“Mm?”

“You said you were a homicide detective for fifteen years. Why aren’t you still one?” There’s a long silence. At last Andy shrugs.

“Layoffs. Just layoffs. They offered a package to anyone who wanted to quit, and I took it.” 

“Why you? You must have had enough seniority to refuse, and you weren’t anywhere close to retirement age.” 

”I was more footloose and fancy-free than some of the others— and,” he adds firmly, “I couldn’t stand the coffee.”

“The coffee.” Their eyes meet, and Andy doesn’t look away. 

Holly stands on tiptoe and kisses him. She hears the clink as he sets down the last cup before embracing her. Then she hears a floorboard in the kitchen doorway, creak beneath Detective Anderson’s tread:

“Howie and Claude have gone to get us some lunch,” he rumbles. “Time to lay our plans.”


End file.
